


Whiskey at Dawn

by kelly42fox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly42fox/pseuds/kelly42fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck was rudely awakened from a rough night of sleep by and uninvited, but expected, house guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArchAngelCassiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchAngelCassiel/gifts).



> This is something I promised my friend because she has a hard time finding her ship. It's soaked in whiskey but REALLY tame. Like barely shippy.

A loud crash shocked him out of sleep with a jolt, and he tumbled to the floor. Full consciousness revealed that his face was squished against the dusty floor at the foot of his couch in his ever cluttered living room with the pages he’d passed out writing scattered all around him. He blinked blearily trying to subdue the headache that was threatening to overtake his senses.

It was going to be one of those days, so he didn’t bother moving. He could tell by the pale light filtering through his grimy curtains that it was hours before he’d planned to be awake. Dusty couch or dusty floor, it didn’t matter one way or the other.

Pathetic. He already needed a drink.

Whatever caused the crash that had awakened him seemed to have resolved itself because the house returned to its usual thick silence, and it was quickly passing out of his conscious thought. His body returned to its usual sloppy state, and he decided to go back to sleep. Then someone opened the back door, rousing his attention. He could tell by the very distinct whine.

His eyes blinked open again, and he sighed. He was in no condition to receive guests or burglars. Either option was equally irritating to his pounding head.

“Chuck?!” a deep voice called from somewhere in the back of the house, and he instantly recognized it. It was a guest, then, and an unwanted one. It punched out a groan from deep within him.

Winchesters. They just reminded him of everything he’d come to hate about his existence. They rattled around in his brain whether he wanted them to or not. They gave him a headache. Literally. 

Heavy boot clad footfalls made their way toward the living room. “Chuck?”

“No,” he was able to punch out, but it was muffled by the wood floor. It must have been loud enough for the Winchester to hear because the footfalls quickened. 

Chuck could tell when the Winchester entered the room because the footfalls stopped, there was a sharp intake of breath, and the repeat of his name took on a worried tone. He could feel the vibrations of boots hitting the wood as they rushed closer. 

Just as a warm hand was placed on his shoulder, Chuck pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. The warm hands gripped his shoulders and hoisted him onto the couch. Then he was faced with a kneeling, concerned looking Dean Winchester.

“You ok, man? You don’t look so hot.”

Chuck limply waved a hand. “It’s always worse when you come around… Somehow the addition of myself into…” he trailed off for a moment. “It’s just worse.”

Dean winced apologetically but didn’t say anything. He heaved himself off the floor and flopped into the couch next to Chuck. “So you know why I’m here.”

“Don’t I always…?” He grimaced as his head pounded.

Without being asked, Dean grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey off the side table, took a swig from it, and passed it over. Chuck frowned at it, but took a large dose. He was surprised how much it still burned going down.

“Damn,” Dean breathed after recovering from his pull. “That shit’s rough.”

“It’s cheap,” Chuck commented with a shrug. “So how much do you want to bet that Sam will be late?”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. “Hell no. I’m not betting a profit about the future.”

Chuck smirked.

They sat in silence for long minutes, passing the bottle of whiskey back and forth until it was gone. Chuck watched Dean for a moment and mused at how two men could polish off half a large bottle of hard alcohol at the ass crack of dawn with little to no effect on their cognitive abilities. It spoke volumes to the state of their lives.

Dean held up the empty. “You got more?”

“Shelf to the right of the fridge.”

When Dean stood to retrieve a new bottle of booze, Chuck took the opportunity to flop over onto the couch across Dean’s seat. Being horizontal felt so much better than being vertical.

Chuck closed his eyes and listened to Dean rummage around in the kitchen. He wondered what the hell he was doing because it didn’t take that long to get a bottle. He was doubly confused when the sink ran.

The mystery revealed itself when Dean returned to the living room with full open bottle in one hand and a large glass of water in the other.

“Oh hell no,” Dean groused, stopping in the middle of the floor. “You can’t take up the whole damn couch. Sit up. Drink this.” He held out the water glass toward Chuck.

Grumbling, Chuck pushed himself into a sitting position. “Why do I listen to you?”

“Can it, Profit. You know, even more than me, what’s going on. You’re part of this now whether you like it or not. May as well not kill yourself over it.”

Chuck snorted into the glass before taking a long drink. Oddly, the water tasted almost sweet after all the whiskey. “I know more than you could possibly imagine,” he muttered as Dean took his seat on the far couch cushion again.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He took another drink of water so he wouldn’t have to answer any further.

Dean took a pull from the whiskey.

“Why is it that you get the good stuff when I’m stuck with this…” he said flatly, gesturing pointedly with the water.

“I had breakfast before I got here,” Dean shot him a knowing expression. “My guess is that you haven’t eaten in awhile. I’ll make you a deal. You finish that glass, you can have this.”

“Fair.”

They lapsed into another silence. When Chuck finished the water, Dean passed over the bottle, as promised. After some time of passing the whiskey back and forth, the familiar warm languidity of intoxication started to pull at him and with it the aches receded into the background. His eyes started to get heavy. He looked over at Dean. Even he seemed to be relaxed.

Chuck flopped down on to the couch again, but his head hit something warmer, more solid. It took him a second to realize it was Dean’s thigh. Chuck froze. It seemed Dean had, as well.

Chuck meant to scramble away, but before his alcohol addled brain could force his body to move, a warm hand fell onto his head. Dean’s hand gave him permission to stay, and Chuck relaxed into it. Nothing could have prepared him for the relief and warmth that acceptance brought.

It was better than the whiskey. Much better.

Some time later Chuck was awakened by more footfalls in the house. He took stock. His head was rested on a warm thigh, and Dean was snoring lightly above him. So someone else was in his home.

Chuck opened his eyes just in time to see Sam, standing in the living room doorway, pull out his cell phone. The smirk of amusement on his face was a sight to behold.

Pressing his eyes closed, Chuck willed himself to return to the one moment of peace he’d had in a long while, but deep inside he knew that it was futile. Good moments were always fleeting.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, Jimmy. You have to know I love you because writing ships that I don't sail is really difficult for me.
> 
> So I'm sorry that I used their tendency to use alcohol as a coping mechanism as blatant excuse for them to bond. But honestly, this is how I see Dean relating to Chuck 90% of the time.
> 
> Also, I only read it once after I wrote it.... *cough*


End file.
